


Everything In Between

by nai_za



Category: C-Pop, EXO, EXO-M, K-pop, Kpop - Fandom, Kris Wu - Fandom, SM - Fandom, SM Entertainment, Wu Yifan - Fandom, cpop
Genre: Angst, China, Chinese, F/M, M/M, Reader Insert, Sci-Fi, South Korea - Freeform, gender neutral reader, idol, k-idol - Freeform, x Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 17:45:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11422986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nai_za/pseuds/nai_za
Summary: SYNOPSIS:- Reality is an illusion, something you realise as youand your husband,Wu Yi Fan, are wrapped in a conspiracythat plays with the fabric of time itself.





	1. you

**Author's Note:**

> DETAILS:  
> \- this story is told out of chronological order  
> \- this story contains the implication of sex  
> \- this story is meant to be gender neutral, however  
> expect inconsistencies due to complexity  
> \- this story has eight chapters  
> \- this story is an x-reader, however, you are not the  
> main character

 

He paused.

 

 

He paused, leaned back—the chair squeaking beneath the pressure—and let his thoughts consume him. They rushed forth, and past, like brightly lit up neon cars racing down city streets, illuminating a black night. When he closed his eyes, the concepts danced before him like flickering traffic lights—he would stop, but only for a moment, before he ploughed onward to the recesses of his mind, discovering each hidden memory, each concealed desire; uncovering everything he could find.

 

It was not supposed to be happening to him. It was not supposed to be him in this chair. These probes were not meant to be attached to his forehead. The steady beeping of the machine to his right was not meant to be measuring his heart rate—but then again, it’s kind of funny how things like this end up working out.

 

It was like looking at a map, and planning a route; a series of red lines crisscrossing across intersections and crossroads, taking lefts and rights, until finally stopping at a roughly drawn x—a destination. And then folding up the map and setting out, only to encounter road blocks, traffic jams and an endless of unforeseen circumstances and events that were never taken into consideration. In the end you encounter so many obstacles, you wonder if it is even worth it anymore. In the end, you encounter so many obstacles, you wonder if you it is even where you want to go.

 

In the end, you end up taking a completely different, unplanned, improvised route that you’d never even cast a second thought to before when you were hunched over that outdated map. In the end, most times, we don’t even end up where we wanted to be. And most times, it isn’t that we gave up, it was simply a change in priorities; a change in yourself that resulted in you wanting—needing—different things. Maybe that’s the scariest thing of all—not that something may go dreadfully wrong, but rather that, gradually and eventually, the thing you want most, isn’t what you want at all anymore.

 

He considers all of this, bringing his fingers up to his temples and pressing against the muscles in an attempt to soothe them. When his eyes fluttered back open, it took a little over a second or two for the world around him to sharpen and return to focus. The room was grey; a sterile sort of grey that was unrelenting and impenetrable. He knew all about this grey—he designed it after all—he knew of its reinforced steel structure hidden between the heavy cement. The floor was an unblemished white, and all the room’s adornments were a cold, silver metal. The silence was interrupted by the rhythmic computerised tune of his heart thumping against his rib cage. He blinked once or twice, staring directly at the one way mirror in front of him. His reflection stared back; dark, tired eyes and features sunken by exhaustion studied him. He was a mess; he looked the part and goddamn felt it too.

 

They were on the other side. He knew this with the sort of certainty that could never waver. The kind of certainty a child has that his mother will be waiting for him outside the school gates when that bell finally rings. The kind of certainty with which a newly wedded wife grasps her husband’s hand—as though they would never let go, as though they would never need to. As though. He knew they were on the other side because he would have been there had he not been trapped in this chair, held down by a metaphysical forcefield composed from a familliar pattern of ones and zeros that would not scar him arms or legs like a metal brace would’ve. He closed his eyes again, and gave in to the chaos of his thoughts.

 

And in the darkness of his city of thoughts, through the flashes of neon car lights, through the loud traffic and fading lights, he sees your face—but only in glimpses as it all fades to black and brightens up again like an eternal cycle.

 


	2. happy

“I love you,” he whispers in your ear.  
           
           The warmth of his breath caresses your neck, and you feel that smile inch over your face; that smile you always ended up wearing when he was around. His hands snake around your waist pulling you against his chest, sending soapy water splashing over the edges of the sink.  
           
           You don't mind.  
         
             Bubbly water drips down from the countertop into a considerable puddle on the wooden floor of the kitchen. He places a kiss on your shoulder, and although you’re torn between yelling at him for making such a mess and turning around and wrapping your hands around his neck and kissing him back—while letting that dishing washing liquid water that stained your hands soak his shirt for good measure—you don’t move. Instead, you simply enjoy the moment of being enveloped in the arms of the man you loved, of feeling the warm sunshine against your face that streamed from the window above the sink.  
           
           You take a long blink and inhale before just turning a little to kiss his chin—the only part of him you could reach without having him bend over a bit—and breaking his hold on you, and grabbing another plate and scrubbing.  
         
             “I have to finish these,” you tell him with a bright smile on your face. For the first time, washing dishes didn’t even seem like that much of an annoyance of a task. The comfort was in knowing you were doing this for him—for both of you. It was in knowing that this was _your_ house—the both of you. It was in knowing that this was your family—even though right now it was just you two; and for some reason, just knowing that it was for him and you as a couple, a family, made even the most tiring of chores, not all that bad.  
                  
            Maybe you were becoming domesticated—though it is not as though you heard Yi Fan complaining either.  
          
            “I know,” he tells you, watching you with this insanely perfect smile plastered on his face; watching you as though you were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen, despite the fact you were elbow deep in dirty water, your hair falling into your eyes, doing what has to be the most menial of house tasks.  
            
          You blush—even after all this time—you _blush_ and return to your work, thinking that if something like heaven existed, you were living it right now.


	3. stable

“What’s the status of the subject?”

  
            “He’s stabilised—as he’s been for the past three hours.”

  
            “I don’t appreciate your tone, doctor.”

  
            “Sir, I—”

  
            “You what?”

  
            “I don’t understand _why him._ He developed this, he might break through the system at any moment there’s no telling—also, he’s our _best_ researcher. I don’t understand why he had to go under. Why not an actual test subject?”

  
            “Are you quite done?”

 

           “I-I apologise. I was out of line.”

  
            “You were indeed.”

  
            “I just don’t understand.”

  
            “You aren’t meant to.”

  
            “I…I see.”

  
            “Dr. Wu was becoming a vulnerability.”

  
            “Because he was…in love?”

  
            A cold laugh echoed, “No, my dear. Not because he was in love.”

  
            “Then why?”

  
            “Because his purpose has been fulfilled."

  
            “What purpose?”

  
            “The one he was brought here for.”

  
            “Is he leaving?”

  
            “Yes.”

  
            “But—”

  
            “That’s the way it is—that’s the way things work around here.”

  
            “He’s still the absolute best researcher this facility has seen in decades.”

  
            “Is he?”

  
            “Yes!”

  
            “Right.”

  
            “Sir, where are you going?”

  
            “Keep an eye on him. If anything changes, notify me immediately.”

  
            “Yes, sir.”

  
            “Good work, doctor.”

  
            “Of course.”


	4. morning

The mattress was new.  
          
            This was both a plus and minus. The plus was, well, it was new. It had no past memories, meaning or sentimentality attached to the worn fabric, loose threads or bounceless springs. The minus was that it was just a little too hard to sleep comfortably on—at least for you; Yi Fan seemed to be doing just fine.  
            
          He slept almost silently, every now and again exhaling out so loudly, it sounded like a sigh of frustration that made you jump and check if he was awake. His features were not tightened, his brows not knotted together, and the peacefulness of his expression was all that kept you from awakening him and ensuring he was not trapped in some nightmare.  
        
              The windows were open just slightly, allowing the soft morning breeze to flutter in and sending the white net curtains billowing ever so gently. Sunlight crept into the bedroom, and you were leaning against the soft grey fabric of the headboard, a novel grasped tightly in your hands as your eyes scoured over the words, devouring every metaphor and epithet.  
        
              You sighed dreamily as the novel climaxed, a light smile brushing your lips as you turned the page. On urge, you snuck a look at Yi Fan sleeping soundly beside you—only to find him wide awake, and watching _you._  
             
         “Hi,” you said, shyly.  
             
         “Hi,” he said.  
           
           And you both lay there, in bed, on a lazy Sunday morning, grinning at each other like lunatics until he reached over, took the book from your hand, placed it on the nightstand and covered your mouth with his.  
             
         The movement of yours and his lips were perfectly synchronised like the beat of your favourite song—familiar, memorised, and favoured. You slid down flat unto the bed and he climbed on top of you, the kiss never once breaking. Your fingers intertwined with his, your legs parted and he slid between them, his body moving slowly against yours.  
           
           Seconds transformed into minutes, clothes were removed in favour of bareness, and even though you know exactly what happened next, even though you’ve listened to this song a hundred times, even though you knew how it ended—it still didn’t make it any less exciting.


	5. taken

“What are you doing?!”

  
           
           Cold metal clasps around his wrists as he stares desperately at the security officials, dressed impeccably in their white outfits.

  
            
          “What going on?” he asks again, trying to steady his voice.

  
             
         “Dr. Wu,” Cedric Nottingham appears in the doorway of Yi Fan’s office.

  
            
          “Cedric,” Yi Fan exclaimed, partially in relief, partially in alarm. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

  
            
          Yi Fan tried to fight free, pulling pointlessly against his metal restraints.

  
            
          “It’s time,” Cedric said.

             
        “Time for what?” Yi Fan searched Cedric’s icy blue eyes for some sort of hint, some sort of answer.

  
           
           “You always forget,” Cedric touched Yi Fan’s cheek in an almost adoring manner before stepping back and straightening out the lapels of his pinstripe suit. “It’s a shame.”

  
             
         “I don’t understand—”

  
             
         “You never do.”

  
           
           “What’s—”

  
             
         “Take him away,” Cedric spoke to the guards standing behind Yi Fan.

  
            
          “Take me where? _What did I do?”_

  
            
          “You always ask the same things. It’s always the same with you, Wu,” remarked Cedric, in a mildly amused tone.  
        

  
            Not awaiting Yi Fan’s retort, Cedric strode out of the office and back into the central lab. Everything here was just a little too… _white_ for his taste.

  
  
        “Doctor,” he stopped the nearest person dressed in a white lab coat.

  
           
           “Yes, sir?”

  
           
           “Ah, Dr. Yue, correct?”

  
           
           “Yes, sir, is something wrong?”

  
           
           The woman was small, almost frail looking. Bones jutting out at every angle, her angular face way too defined.

  
            
          “Have Dr. Wu prepped for Room 32.”

  
           
           “ _Dr. Wu?!”_

  
         
             “Yes, doctor. Do I have to repeat myself?” asked Cedric, annoyed.

  
         
             “N-no. I’ll have it done immediately.”

  
         
             “Righto. I’ll be back in an hour. Make sure all the necessary preparations are made—and make sure the machine is ready—Dr. Wu made the necessary enhancements?”

  
         
             “Yes. Sir, am I to put Dr. Wu in his own invention?”

  
       
               Cedric rolled his eyes, “It isn’t Wu’s. He just…upgraded it. There’s a difference.”

  
          
            “I’m sorry, sir.”

  
               
           “I’ve wasted enough time on you. Have it done.”

  
            
          “Yes, sir.”

 


	6. meeting

Rain sputtered against the roof of the café you’d ducked into.

  
            
          The café was like an overflowing gutter during a storm—filled with people just buying a coffee so they can escape the heavy rain outside.

  
         
             You sighed as you scanned the café for an empty seat. It was the warm sort, with honey coloured wooden panels and decorative plants scattered every here and there. You order a hot chocolate before spotting a vacant seat opposite a very _sulky_ looking guy, probably around your age, maybe with a few years on you.  
         

  
           “May I sit here?” you skipped the pleasantries, the heat of your drink already burning your hand.

  
          
            He nodded without looking up; utterly engrossed in the newspaper he was reading.

  
         
             You plopped down opposite him, shrugging off your back before pulling out your notebook and sipping on your hot chocolate. You relaxed into the warmth that travelled down your oesophagus and settled in your stomach, before clicking your pen and getting to write.

  
             
         A clock on the nearby wall clicked another minute away.

  
           
           You had nothing.

  
           
           The words slipped out of your grasp like water. It was futile.

  
           
         “Can you stop clicking your pen?” said the rather attractive but rude tablemate you had saddled yourself with; he _still_ hadn’t bothered looking at you.

  
  
        “Yeah, sure, sorry,” you said, draining the contents of your drink.

  
          
          He never responded.

  
            
          The rain was beginning to subside, “Were you here before the storm?” you asked, trying to make conversation. Who knew? Maybe he could inspire you.

  
            
          “Yes.”

  
         
          “Oh,” you said, “Do you come here often then?”

  
           
           “No.”

  
            
          “What do you—”

  
                      
         “Look,” he cut you off. And that’s when he looked up and saw you. And he looked at you, and you stole his breath away. He looked at you and that’s how it all began.


	7. reset

            “It’s done,” Cedric whispered into his phone.

  
          
            “What does he remember?” a voice on the other end questioned.

  
          
            “Arguably nothing, as per always.”

  
          
            “The flaws with the design have been fixed, I assume?”

  
         
             “From the results? I’d say yes. It was a good idea to put him under.”

  
          
            “He’s been going under since before you were born, Mr. Nottingham.”

  
          
            “Right. Anyway, further orders?”

  
          
            “Has his new portfolio been uploaded?”

  
          
            “Yes. He believes he’s some boyband member that’s at the hospital after spraining his ankle during practise.”

  
          
            “A trainee. He’s supposed to be a trainee for an entertainment company.”

  
          
            “Uh, right.”     

  
          
            “Moving on, a car will be there shortly to pick him up. He’ll have a new home and manager in no time.”    

   
         
             “So that’s it? You wiped his memories and now he’s a new person? What of his spouse?”

  
          
            The line reverberates with soft laughter. “What spouse?”

  
            
          Cedric shifted his weight awkwardly, “You know, his spouse? The one he always talked about? Met them in a coffee shop?”

  
           
           “His ‘spouse’ does not exist.”

  
          
            “Of course they does, haven’t you—”

  
           
           “Oh, enlighten me on when you met them?”

  
          
            Silence.

  
          
            “If you bothered to read his previous portfolio like you hadn’t bothered to read his current, you’d know those are just memory implantations. There is no wife. There is no husband. There is no significant other. Notice how he _always_ worked late despite this fabulous so called marriage?”

  
            
          “I’m—”

  
            
          “Stupid, Mr. Nottingham, I know.”

  
           
           “Have him ready. He needs a headstart on his ‘new life’.”

  
           
           “Right away.”


	8. exist

          “What are you writing?” he asked, leaning in with a playful smile.

  
           
           “Words,” you tell him, “I make up things. And stories.”

  
         
            “That’s kind of ironic,” he tells you.

  
          
           “Oh?” 

  
           
           “Yeah,” he said, “It’s kind of ironic because you’re made up. But maybe that’s the thing—right now, I don’t really even care.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ORIGINAL VERSION : https://www.quotev.com/story/8489498/Everything-In-Between


End file.
